


Running Would Become A Habit

by NoiseyLobster



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Eventual Bumblebee, F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoiseyLobster/pseuds/NoiseyLobster
Summary: Your feet pounded over concrete and packed earth, down alleyways and behind long-closed storefronts, past landmark after landmark, until the buildings grew strange and your father’s shouts were swallowed by the dark.Somewhere behind you a dog howled and cold fear plunged down your spine, spurring you on.Farther. Faster.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> RWBY is the sole property of Monty Oum and Rooster Teeth. I don't own any of this.

Things fall apart. You knew that, you always had. It was baked in, nestled deep inside it all like the rot in an apple's core. Not every bite would be bitter, but eventually, inevitably, a bitter bite would come. 

You were seven the first time. 

The details are distant and foggy, but you remember having lied to your mother earlier that day and embarrassing her at the market. The faces resist recall, just shadows snickering among faded memories of fruit stands and other nameless shops. You’ll certainly never forget the look of disappointment on your father’s face later that night however. Or the shuffling sound of your mother’s feet as she paced. 

_Belladonna's don’t tell lies Blake._

God how many times had you heard that growing up? As if it had done any good. 

Shame and guilt washed freely through each humiliating tear as it dripped down your cheeks, despite your every fiber wishing them away. It was late, long past your usual bedtime.

Father had been so tall. So angry.

The room bordered on suffocating. 

_Constant shuffling. Feet pacing over and over in the humid air, their echoes winding together...once and then twice again, braiding into a rope._

You’d run.

Your feet pounded over concrete and packed earth, down alleyways and behind long-closed storefronts, past landmark after landmark, until the buildings grew strange and your father’s shouts were swallowed by the dark. 

Somewhere behind you a dog howled and cold fear plunged down your spine, spurring you on. 

Farther. Faster. 

The air was freezing by then, the heat of the day long since smothered. At one point you’d fallen - _you must have_ \- and sliced open your leg on something and now blood, dirt, bits of twigs and leaves had formed a canvass across your pale skin. Had there been any wind to run against, you’d probably have broken down already.

You’d only ground to a halt when your legs had run out of life, falling into a tumbling dust cloud along one of the dirt roads that bordered the main livestock district of Menagerie. Gulping in enormous lungfuls of air, you’d lain for what felt like an eternity against the side of the street, dreading the moment when someone would glance outside and call for help.

The High Leader’s own daughter, lying like a half-dead rat in the street. 

Father would be furious.

You remember laughing when you saw it.

A White Fang poster hung across the street, torn and water-stained from a distant rain, the familiar white face in the dark staring at you, seeming to almost glow in the moonlight. There was a promise in that gaze, whispers and rumors of things you wouldn’t understand for years, struggles your world was still too small to appreciate. But its weight loomed large over you, swallowing your scrawny frame.

One of your father’s guards would find you some time later, half frozen to the dirt in the street, your leg crusted with dried blood. They would carry you home, bundle you in warm clothes and tend to your wounds, but they couldn’t fix the broken bits inside of you that lead you there.

Years later you’d call it a habit, but that wasn’t quite right. Habits were learned things, bits of memorization hardwired into the brain.

You couldn’t excuse habit for your cowardice, no matter how familiar, how natural the feel of blood pumping through your legs became. But there was a kind of value in the simplicity of the lie, so you used it and stacked that sin among the others. 

Running would become a habit.


	2. Chapter 2

You were still a little girl the second time, short and scrawny with more hair than height and only a childlike understanding of what your parents did for a living or why your father would come home some days looking ready to cry. It’s hard to pin an age on it, but eight or nine feels right so that’s what you tell Yang when she asks. She smiles at you kindly and doesn’t question it.

This time you can’t remember why.

The outskirts had always been dangerous. Wedged on a narrow tract of land between forests teeming with animals who rivaled Grimm for their aggressiveness and the pounding surf of the coastline, Menagerie was a home for Faunus that could learn to make do. Adversity had built the sprawling city streets, reinforced them, made them strong. From the rocky soil of the island’s coast, countless commerce districts, shops and bustling family homes had grown over the years to house, feed and employ the thousands who’d found even the harshness of Menagerie a welcome safe-haven from the rest of Remnant. You’d spent your childhood etching your footfalls into every nook and cranny of that place, until the twisting paths and uneven blocks became as familiar as the walk to your bedroom door. 

You could name each spot, even now. There was the peach tree behind Mrs. Davis’ daycare that had the best branch for reading during summer afternoons and the ice cream store you’d beg your mother to take you to on every birthday or special occasion that could possibly justify the trip. 

That night however the world seemed foreign. Strange and impossibly tall. 

Buildings rose above you, towering like giants. Spiderwebbed cracks in hastily laid foundations belied their strength and old weathervanes echoed rusty moans through the stillness. On better days and calmer hours you would weave carelessly in and out between each building, playing games among the hung up laundry with your friends or perching on a quiet roof to read where no one would think to look for you. 

Tonight you pushed on. 

You were small, but your legs felt strong and the roaring deluge of panic through your veins made your whole body buzz. Shadows sprawled and swallowed the earth hungrily, unchecked by the presence of a moon that night. Each step was a gamble, a prayer for solid earth instead of a pothole or dug up cobblestone. With no light to guide by, it was a miracle you hadn’t twisted an ankle yet. 

But you also hadn’t been spotted. Too many Faunus could see in the dark.

\-----------------------------------

Yang sets a cup of tea in front of you and you smile shyly. It's late, far too late for Yang to be up after all the work she’d put in training with the Ace Ops earlier that day. Not that you have any room to judge. God you must look like a mess. Dragging a stray hand through your newly cut hair, you wince at the tangles and the greasy feel of matted fur covering your ears. You don’t need a mirror to know full grown Grimm could hide in the bangs under your eyes. It's been...a long time since you’d gotten a full night's sleep. 

You don't even notice you’d started shivering until your frozen fingers grip the mug, drinking heat from the cup like a lifeline. Despite the Atlas dorm room’s heat, the cold of that night and your nightmares seem to tear right through you, sinking deep into your bones across the gulf of the years. With each sip you feel gratitude wash over you, along with the taste of lavender and the barest hint of honey. Just the way you like it. 

Sometimes it's the little things Yang does that make you want to cry. 

“You don’t have to keep--” Yang starts, but quiets at the shake of your head. You can't help but notice her hand twitch slightly at her side as she likely fights the urge to reach out and comfort you in some way. Yang's always been like that. Quick to befriend and even quicker to protect, always willing to wrap her arms around a hurting loved one and be their shield from the world. It's hard to say no to that. Most days you can't really explain why you do. Why something as little as a stray touch can leave you rooted in place, frozen, your heart hammering violently in your chest. That Yang understands without even needing to be told, that she leaves you to make the first move and never pushes you when you don’t...that means more than she'll ever know.

Part of you wants to stop. To do the easy thing and sink into yourself again, to run away to somewhere quiet and lose yourself in a book until you feel like yourself again and the ground feels more solid under your feet. The impulse is overwhelming. 

But ignoring the nightmares haven't helped. How many nights now have you woken up in a cold sweat, Yang’s worried eyes peering at you in the dark? Maybe talking would help. Granted you could have certainly picked a better time of day to spill your heart out to your partner, not that Yang would ever complain. The sun would be up in just a few hours and there's still so much to do, so much to prepare for. 

_Selfish. Selfish, selfish, selfish._ You can hear the manta, laced with his usual derision, as real as if he were standing next to you. Squeezing your eyes tight, you force the voice away and take another long drink of your tea. It hadn’t been so bad when you were on the road.

You wonder sometimes why you have to be this way. Why you can't just let things be easy. Why you can't just let Yang wrap you up in her arms and hold you until things feel simple again and Gambol Shroud’s weight isn't so heavy at your side. 

Impulsive courage seizing you, you ignore the voice in your head begging you to find a dark corner and hide and instead reach out a shaky hand to grab Yang’s. The touch barrier broken, Yang’s response is immediate and you feel warmth flood through you as strong fingers lock around your own. You lower your eyes, suddenly shy again at the expression on her face, soft and so full of kindness that it makes you want to sob. 

Yang is different. You can trust Yang with this, with anything. 

You just wish it wasn't so hard.

\-----------------------------------

How long had you ran? Two...no three hours? At a certain point you’d lost track, but by the time you began to slow your pace, your legs were long since numb. Somewhere buried far away, a conscious bit of your mind begged you to stop, begged you to turn around or at the very least rest. But something drove you on, further, farther, closer to the treeline and the shadows hanging from its branches. 

The settlements around you grew sparse and your lungs burned as you ran. Pain and bone-deep fatigue lanced through your muscles as they screamed for more and more, devouring every last reserve, lighting up your nerve endings in a network of fireworks down the curve of your spine. A wolf howled in the distance, but you could barely hear it over the hum of aura in your ears. The noise was deafening.

Night air stung your cheeks, cold and electrifying with the promise of a winter that hadn’t yet come. You could see the forest clearly now, looming like an army of titans in the distance. Each trunk stood tall and proud, unbroken by lines of houses and clothes hung up to dry in the crisp air, defiant in their resistance to Menagerie’s expansion. You ignored that voice again as it pleaded, warning you of merciless eyes and claws in the dark. 

You only stopped when you found the rabbit. It lay there, less than a mile out from the last cluster of houses, cold and growing still, its rear leg still twitching as impulses from a dying brain fired instinctually into the void. Violence had found it and left with a crunch, separating bone from ligament, muscle from sinew in an awful final act. Bits of fur matted with blood lay scattered around the body, twisted together with lines of dirt by the wind into a gruesome-looking noose.

You tried to save it. Crouching down beside the broken little body, your hands hovered above it shaking. There was some solution to this. Just like in school, some combination of the left and right-hand sides to make the equation balance, to make the pools of blood inside and out hum together in rhythm again. To bring things back the way it had been before the world came and took its fill. 

Hot tears spilled down your cheeks and you wiped them away in disgust. 

_Belladona’s don’t cry Blake._

\-----------------------------------

“Were you able to help?”

A dizzying wave of affection surges through you at the hopeful sound in Yang’s voice. Yang knows the truth, you can see it plain as day in her eyes. She's too perceptive, too well acquainted with the way the world works to imagine otherwise. But she still hopes, probably just for your sake, but hopes nonetheless that the story has a happy ending somehow. You try to answer, but the words die in your throat. Something about the idea of dashing that bit of hope from Yang makes your stomach recoil in protest. 

“It’s dumb,” you sidestep, ignoring the traitorous hitch in your voice that you hope in vain Yang won’t notice. “My family ate meat. When I was little I even used to go with my dad to inspect some of the production yards in the livestock district. I don’t know why something like that should have bothered me so much.”

Yang frowns, her fingers drumming a pattern on the table as the other squeezes yours reassuringly. 

“That wasn’t for food.” Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper.

You smile sadly at Yang. Because of course she would understand.

“No. I guess it wasn’t.”

\-----------------------------------

Your father found you hours later, still crouched by the dead rabbit's side, tears feeding the weeds and dandelions dotting the ground beneath you. The first hesitant traces of sunlight had begun to make their way above the horizon and the warmth felt strange on your half-frozen skin. Things get fuzzy again after that. You don’t remember his reaction, but years of fights and unrelated disappointments fill in the blanks. Those would come later. 

Instead you focus on the things that stand out, even so many years later. The smell of winter hanging in the air, the soft rustle of your father’s jacket as he tucked you into his arms, his quiet breath as he walked. You didn't protest as he carried you home. Your mind was elsewhere, on the rabbit’s eyes and the feel of the little rocks and stones digging into your knees as you kneeled beside it. 

The world felt wrong, terribly off-balance and twisted. Your stomach churned at some nameless feeling and you spent the rest of the trip home trying to put a finger on it as you fought down surges of bile and lightheadedness. It wasn’t until your house was in sight that you found the words to describe what you were feeling. Ever since you were born your father had been a tower, a giant of a man, capable of anything. This was the first time, argument or no, that you’d ever been held in his arms and still felt so terribly unsafe. 

A few weeks later you’d sneak out again, during the day this time, and watch from the limb of a tree as White Fang protestors rallied in town square, marching and chanting slogans that would stir emotions in you that you still didn't have names for. 

Things would fall apart quickly after that.


	3. Chapter 3

Most days you feel okay. You still aren’t sleeping more than an hour or two a night, but you’ve gotten better at hiding the nightmares. It helps that the coffee at Atlas Academy is wonderfully strong and very, very well stocked. At least you aren’t waking Yang up in the middle of the night anymore. 

You still have bad days. Weird, disconnected days where you feel like you float from room to room, Gambol Shroud weightless and ethereal on your back, until you can make an excuse to get back to the dorm and bury your face in a book. Those days you stay in bed until the world feels solid again. 

But most days aren’t like that. Most days are okay. Today’s okay. Practice with the Atlas Academy students is a welcome change from the constant kill-or-be-killed struggle the road here had been. Between the Grimm and Ada--.

You cut the thought off before it can spiral. A kick from Neon to your temple helps with that. You need your focus here. Now. 

Neon is too fast for distractions. 

“You okay?” Yang’s call is muffled, her gauntlets deafening as they carve blast craters into the rocky terrain that comprises the battlefield. Neon had locked you down as soon as the practice bout had begun, leaving the other three members of Team FNKI to focus on Yang exclusively. 

“I’m fine.” You pitch confidence into your voice. Today’s a good day. You can handle this. You’re going to handle this. “You worry about yourself. I’ll be there before you can miss me.”

Yang’s laugh rings out between a burst from Ember Celica and Flynt’s trumpet. You squeeze Gambol Shroud’s hilt, feeling the soft leather mold to familiar fingers, worn in through so many days of violence and struggle. The world grows slow. 

“I’ll be counting the minutes!” You can practically see the wink on Yang’s face. It’s awful how endearing the sight is. You grind your feet into the earth, eyes tracking the rainbow streaked blur of your opponent as you soak in the humid heat of the arena. 

You breathe. 

Your lungs fill with air as Neon turns back on you again and Gambol’s ribbon whips through the breeze, feeling every bit like a third arm. Moments like these, you love your body. How strong it feels, how every muscle fiber and cell seems to almost bend in rhythm to your will, their movements precise, surgical. 

Gambol hangs in the air, a moment captured in time. Your breath ripples through you, coursing from toe to sword tip as your aura pools in your legs. Neon charges, her speed blinding, the air behind her vibrating with color until she’s almost hard to make out among the maelstrom. 

You meet her half way. 

Your aura screams in your ears as you charge with every ounce of speed your legs can muster. Gambol’s blade cuts through the air in front of you, raised in a feint you pray is convincing at these speeds. At the point of no return your left foot slams into the ground, anchoring yourself for a spin into a steep pivot to the side. Charged with every bit of your momentum, Gambol’s ribbon cracks behind you like a whip. 

Neon never sees the blow coming. Gambol sinks into the soft, unguarded flesh of her sternum, lifting her off her feet as she tumbles head over heels. She lands in a pile, gasping desperately for breath, but you give her no time for that. Your blade drops like a hammer, cutting through Neon’s aura and sending her crashing into one of the oversized boulders dotting the battlefield’s terrain. 

You spare a darting glance to ensure she’s dazed but otherwise fine, before turning to the sound of Yang’s fight. You sprint in her direction, running as fast as your legs can carry you, spurred on by worry for your partner and the quiet undercurrent of nameless fear that seasons every fight with a teammate on the battlefield, practice or not. It’s only when you finally arrive that you realize there was no reason to hurry. A proud grin splits your face. 

Only Flynt is left. 

Yang whoops with delight as she sees you charge in, gauntlet claud arm raised in anticipation of victory. Her hair is matted with sweat, but she somehow seems to only glisten brighter in the artificial lighting of the arena, glowing like a miniature sun. Despite having fought outnumbered for the entirety of the battle, Yang seems to practically vibrate with energy, bouncing on the tips of her toes, her body alert and her usually lilac eyes a vibrant, burning red. 

Beautiful. The word coats your tongue like honey, lingering in a thick coat all the way down. 

You clear your throat, fighting down the heat on your cheeks as you fix your eyes on Flynt instead. There’s an exhaustion to his stance that is as much a compliment to Yang as it is to his own determination to win. There’s no question: he’s ready to try his luck at being the underdog this time. 

Yang's eyes meet your own and you return the unspoken question with a smile. Her hand leaves a burning sensation on your shoulder as she squeezes. The smell of gunpowder and sweat hangs in the air, mixing with the subtle trills of vanilla shampoo and another softer, subtler smell that’s just Yang. It’s intoxicating enough to make you forget where you are.

“You have to keep me waiting like that Blakey?” Yang laughs. You feel your stomach buzz.

Focus. 

“What? Don’t tell me you were lonely?” You fire back, smiling at the sparkle in Yang’s eyes. 

Flynt groans. Loudly. 

“Aww we hurt your feelings Mr. Team Captain? Can’t have you thinking we’d forgotten about you.” 

Yang cracks her knuckles, her chest puffed out in mock bravado. You fight down the almost overwhelming urge to run your hand through her hair. Yang looks every bit the part of one of those wrestlers in that ridiculous show she and Ruby made you and Weiss sit through every Saturday night back at Beacon. Judging by his smirk, the theatrics are clearly as obvious to Flynt as they are to you. 

Flynt's smile is friendly, but his stance subtly shifts into something much more hostile. Yang, despite her swagger, has seen it too. You feel her coil at your side like a spring. After so many days on the road together, you can practically feel her settle into her stance without looking, sense her center of gravity shift, a fresh chamber sliding into place in each gauntlet. 

“You know what Blakey? I’m feeling hungry. Let’s wrap this up and go grab Ruby and Weiss for lunch.”

“Sounds good to me. This shouldn’t take long.” Flynt rolls his eyes at you, a good natured grin on his face despite your less than stellar attempt at matching Yang’s bravado. You’d enjoyed your time together in Atlas. He and Neon had surprisingly good taste in books. 

You’d miss them when you had to leave. 

Yang shifts beside you, her boots crunching into the packed earth of the arena. You move the second she uncoils, closing the short distance between you and Flynt in a burst. Flynt’s trumpet blares and Ember Celica roars, Yang’s semblance burning like a bonfire at your side as she absorbs the blow through her guard. Gambol’s blade hums with your aura and the air crackles as you swing. 

You feel Flynt’s aura shatter under the weight of your blade before your eyes even catch up. Yang sinks a fist into his stomach. Flynt crumples to the ground and just like that it’s over. It feels almost anti-climactic. 

You beam brightly at Yang. She has her arms raised in triumph and you laugh as you watch her slip back into the wrestler persona from minutes before. You can almost picture her with the oversized belt buckle that counted for a trophy in that “sport.” You giggle again, muffling the sound with your fist. Weiss scoffed every time Ruby or Yang called it that. The effect would have been stronger of course if Weiss could ever manage to say it without a soft smile in her eyes, her gaze inexorably drawn to Ruby bouncing excitedly in her seat.  
Flynt lets out a wheeze as he stumbles to his feet and your heart briefly goes out to him. Yang is in the middle of a recreation of what you’re pretty sure is supposed to be some sort of victory dance from the show. If only Neon hadn’t done an actual cartwheel around the arena after the last time you’d lost to Team FNKI, you might have nudged Yang to tone it down for Flynt’s sake. Then again maybe not. What’s wrong with a little over the top nonsense on occasion? You could see even Flynt holding back a pained smile now, obviously amused despite himself at Yang’s display. Only Yang could manage to get away with something like that.

Finally noticing she’d attracted an audience, Yang finishes her celebration, looking almost sheepish at the attention she’d drawn. Just as suddenly the look is replaced by pure excitement and pride as she turns on you, grinning from ear to ear, her eyes asking silent permission even as she hums with pent up energy. You step forward into her arms, laughing as Yang sweeps you up into a bear hug, twirling you in a little celebratory spin. It feels wonderful and well-earned. Your first 2 on 4 victory since coming to Atlas. 

Yang beams like a sun. 

It’s a good day. 

\-----------------------------------------

You and Yang check on Team FNKI before you say your goodbyes and head for the showers. Yang lingers, happy to chat like always, and a part of you hesitates, unwilling to leave the glow of her presence. The need to stop smelling like a garbage collection cart left out in the sun to bake wins out however and you make a beeline for the locker rooms. The only thing sounding better than a shower at that moment is lunch and then maybe the book waiting for you on your dorm room bed. As soon as you’re clean enough to lie on it that is. 

Today feels like a milestone. You’d had dozens of battles against FNKI since making your way to Atlas. Ruby had been insistent that everyone get used to fighting outnumbered so in addition to your usual training regime with the rest of RWBY and the Ace Ops, you and Yang alternated days with Weiss and Ruby to challenge other teams. FNKI were the most regular opponents, and easily the toughest, but you’d had your fair share of fights against several different groups. Today’s the first time you and Yang had ever pulled off a win though. You just wish your body didn’t ache as much as it normally did after a defeat. 

A shower would help with that. Unlike the dorms back in Beacon, you’d learned quickly that Atlas Academy had a wonderful supply of hot water. The showers were going to feel like a sauna by the time you were done. 

You toss your sweat drenched clothes into the receptacle shoot against the side of your locker and marvel as the package is whisked away. Penny had gone on and on excitedly about automated cleaning and delivery systems when you’d asked what it was for during the tour she’d taken RWBY and JNR on after first arriving in Atlas. It had still taken weeks of packing an extra change of clothes before you trusted the system enough to have your things cleaned and returned in the 10 minutes you’d need for your shower. 

At last, hot water drenches your sweat soaked skin and you fight the urge to moan as you can practically feel your muscles unclench and relax. Had someone demanded an answer of you just then, it would have been a tough call as to what you loved more between your shower and every book at your bedside table. The books would still win of course. It would just be harder than normal to make that choice. 

“Hope they clean the place after she leaves. Filthy fucking animals.”

The words are muttered, clearly not intended for your ears. Unfortunately your second set are much sharper than any humans. The steaming hot water suddenly feels like ice on your skin. As much as your body begs you to linger, you end your shower quickly, suddenly incredibly aware of every pair of eyes in the locker room.

Dumb, dumb, dumb, you berate yourself. You know better than to space out like that, here of all places. 

The White Fang had no shortage of rumors about what happened to Faunus that fell on the wrong side of the “law” in Atlas. If you could even call them rumors. How many times had you riffled through an unconscious Atlas soldier’s supply bag while on a mission, only to find a muzzle packed among the standard issue gear and supplies? 

A quiet pang of sympathy for Neon throbs in your chest. She’s still the only Faunus you’ve seen among the Academy students. Beacon had been awful in its own way some days, but you can’t imagine living with the weight of this floating city bearing down on you.

Like Ilia had. You can almost see her now, eyes hard and full of spite, muttering about how they’d never even bothered to search for her parents’ bodies. 

_They left them to rot Blake. Down in that damn pit like yesterday’s garbage._

Stop. Focus. 

You know there’s nothing good down this train of thought. It’s one thing to be aware, but another to let paranoia eat away at you like you can feel it starting to. Nonetheless, the usual glances at your ears, the hushed murmurs, the looks of disgust, both real and imagined, press down on your chest like a vice. Your shaking hands fumble with the lock on your locker. You just need to get your clothes and go. Twenty minutes back at the dorm with your book and you’ll be fine. You’ll go out to lunch with RWBY and it’ll be fine. 

Shadows flicker at the edge of your vision, disappearing into the steam of other students’ showers. You can feel their auras winding together, twisting around and around again through the solid weight of the thousand stun batons and blasters of the Atlas forces. They weave together over and over again, forming into sickly strands of bloody rope, settling into an awful noose to hang you with. You can almost feel it: the city’s judgement resting on a knife’s edge, just waiting for an excuse. 

Twenty minutes. You just have to get back to the dorm. Maybe a nap will help. Today’s been good so far, you--you can still salvage this. 

It isn’t until you’re finally dressed, Gambol’s familiar weight strapped firmly to your back, that you realize you’re holding your breath. Your legs can’t carry you fast enough out of the exit. 

_Still running eh Blake?_

You hear his words, as real and solid as if he were whispering them in your ear. They crawl down your spine like ice. Ears pressed flat against the top of your head, you barely make it out the door before the world lurches underneath you. Quickly you find the first quiet space you can, a corner by the outside front entrance to the locker room, shaded from view by an old oak tree, and tuck yourself in to wait until the moment passes. It isn’t until the ground begins to sway, your sight blurring dangerously at the edges, that you realize you’re holding your breath again. Thank God it’s at least between terms. There are already too many people. 

“You ok Blakey?”

Yang's voice, soft and low, still startles you. You’d never even seen her walk up. How had she found you? What else could you have missed? 

You stumble to your feet, an explanation thick on your tongue, but the ground chooses that moment to lurch out from under you again. It’s only thanks to Yang you stay upright, her hands hovering on either shoulder for just long enough to guide you gently into a sitting position against the tree trunk before letting go. Some distant part of you registers her kneeling in front of you, the heat of her aura burning like a star at your side. The rest is devoted to trying to slow your breathing which is still coming out in short, steady pants. 

_Pathetic._

Not now. Go away. 

Please.

“It's alright Blake. Just breathe. Like me.”

Your vision is still swimming and blurry, but you can hear the sound of Yang taking an exaggerated breath nonetheless. You do your best to copy the motion. Time crawls by painfully slowly, your exhausted thoughts unable to focus on much beyond the sound of Yang’s breathing and your own pitiful attempts to mimic her. 

Finally your pulse begins to slow and your lungs, freed of the vice of your brain’s own making, greedily drink in the winter air. Yang hasn't moved an inch, still hovering just on the edge of your bubble, her face as gentle as anything you’ve ever seen. 

“Can we--” Your voice comes out like a croak and you swallow weakly, furious with yourself for dragging this out any more than you already have. “Can we go home?”

The word ‘home’ drips like a lie from your tongue, calling up images of library corners and training grounds long reduced to rubble and ash and of a dorm room with two stacked bunk beds you know you’ll never be returning to. Yang smiles, a little sadly, and you wonder if she feels it too. 

“I like that idea. Do you want…”

The question hangs unfinished, smothered in what is almost certainly a kindness to your too stubborn pride. No wonder you and Weiss were able to get along so well. At least eventually. You’re more alike than you realize.

“I’m--” it’s your turn to leave a sentence unfinished. ‘Fine’ hangs on the tip of your tongue, ready to jump out on instinct. Your legs feel steadier now, if still somewhat numb from lack of oxygen. One burst of your semblance and you could be a shadow, gone in seconds. Yang would understand. Not that she should...but she would. 

“Thanks. That would be...nice.” The words feel strange, but Yang’s smile is soft and, as you lean in, the arm she wraps around your shoulder is deliciously warm. You let her lead you out of the area, back to the dorm where Ruby and Weiss would be waiting. Ruby had wanted to watch a movie together tonight. Team bonding time, you think she called it. It sounds nice. 

“Sorry Yang.” You mumble against her shoulder, exhausted to your bones.

Yang smiles down at you, more sweetly than you’ll ever deserve, and nuzzles her cheek against the top of your head as you walk.

“Nothing to be sorry for Blakey. It’s been a good day.”


End file.
